The Russian

Searching through waves of iced blue, I found comfort and acceptance. What else could be so charming other than such an oddity wrapped in humor and warmth? He was perfect, and I was a fool, and we were fools in love. The ultimate safety net encircled me as I lied within his toned arms, attuning my heartbeat to his with every pulse radiating through the thick veins bulging from his limbs. I had known peace. I bargained with the universe in fits, and wept to god with hope that this paramour never faded into a blackened history of despair, for it was a story I thought I could never write.

This tale will never end. This feeling will never end. This process will never be finished. The old stories hold truth that none of us ever wanted to believe, but that will come later. A love so deep is felt instantaneously. If you must stop to think about it, you haven't felt it. Exists those who spend their entire lives searching for the other half of their being, lacking the understanding of what it means to have your soul bound to that of another. The monster in us all can only lie dormant for so long. Hindsight suggests the occurance was sluggish with time, anchoring arrows all over my presence that were abruptly shoved deeper with each dispute, then left to simmer in misery. With a wound like this, I believed it was ideal to leave the arrows, rather than rip them out at the risk of a hemorrhage. I had no insight of the infections, bacteria, and parasites rushing into my ever-numb gashes. I developed a perpetual sickness; unable to pull myself out of the pit. The most dangerous type of demon is a being that disguises himself as a human: a neighbor, a friend. . . a lover. 

Author's Note

Unfinished work. This was about all I could stomach at the time.